


Sing to Forget

by bookstantrash



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, Depression, POV Nesta Archeron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:33:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29562642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookstantrash/pseuds/bookstantrash
Summary: Nesta has always loved to sing. Now, singing has become maybe the only thing left that may give her a bit of happiness and peace, even in her darkest times.
Kudos: 7





	Sing to Forget

**Author's Note:**

> I was thinking about how every female character from SJM is well versed in arts: Feyre paints, Aelin plays the piano and Bryce dances.
> 
> I have this head canon that Nesta sings really well. I mean, she lived as a lady for most of her teenage years and was obviously raised like one (I also like to think that Elain embroideries really well).

Nesta hated winter.

She hated how the cold wind made her wish for a cozy and warm place, only made possible by lighting a fireplace. She hated that no matter how many fur blankets she used to sleep with she still felt cold all the way to her bones, her body having no fat whatsoever to warm her.

She also hated how the lonely and empty wood cabin she was currently living reminded her of another chabby cabin, far far away from the harsh and brutal city – if that could be called a city – she now lived. She hated the memories that kept her awake till the sun was rising. She hated how she did not have the alcohol or the males anymore to make her forget. Hated how she could not even _feel_ anything anymore.

Not pleasure. Not the feeling of blissfull that came with the alcohol. Not anger. Not sadness.

She felt nothing.

As she opened the door of said lonely cabin – kicking the bit of snow that was clued to her boots after her trip to grab yet another blanket, wishing for at least _one_ miserable day of warmth – Nesta hated how tired of life she felt.

Everyday was more pointless and boring than the other. Not a single soul of Illyria bothered to talk to her, all of them too scared of her, too scared of she was to even try to get close.

Not that she had initially cared.

Nesta was used to solitude, prefered it that way. She didn’t have time to bother with pleasantries, to appear nice and to sugar coat her every word to make herself likeable. She thought of that as deceiving, as masking her true self. If someone didn’t like how she acted then good riddance. That only proved that they liked her facade and not her real self.

But as the months had gone by, as she grew bored of reading the same three books she had – one of the few things she could call her own, that she had bothered to bring with her to Illyria – Nesta found herself wishing for company. For someone, anyone to talk to her, to keep a conversation with her for longer than a minute. A real conversation, not the words she exchanged when she went out of her wood prision to get supplies.

Not even _him_ talked to her.

Not since that day when she arrived at Illyria, when he showed her where she would be staying and where she could get provisions in the city. He rarely came by to see her.

But Nesta knew that he checked on her.

That he came every three or two days and stayed in a nearby tree monitoring her. Probably to see if she was still alive. Making sure to do his job as her _babysitter_ , like his High Lady had _ordered_ – definitely not asked, given his stone cold face while her sister had delivered the news long ago in Velaris.

After a while, the silence became unbearable. Panick had struck Nesta one day, and she had begun to fear that she was losing her voice, her ability to speak.

That day, when she woke up from a nightmare and couldn’t muster the ability to scream, she reached deep within her memories for the lyrics of a lullaby her deceased mother had sang once upon a time, when Nesta was no more than four and her mother was pregnant with Elain. And willing her voice to work, to let out the melody, she sang until she felt her eyes closing, until she felt herself drift back to sleep. Now, whenever she felt herself disappearing from this world, Nesta would sing, be it lullabies or folk songs she remembered from a time when she was a refined young lady, when she lived in a big house and had tutors and more books than she could possibly read.

She would sing until her voice was hoarse, until the lonely and cold cabin didn’t feel so empty anymore.

Until she felt she was real, not a lingering soul with nowhere to go in this world.

Closing the door and sealing the cold outside, Nesta took off her coat and her blue scarf – another one of her few possessions, given by Elain – ditching her boots.

The cabin only had two floors, with the kitchen and a living room – which consisted of a single couch and a fireplace – on the first one, and two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs.

Too tired after the twenty minute walk knee deep in snow back to her place, Nesta fell on the couch, wrapping herself in the newly acquired fur blanket, the fireplace in front of her appearing to mock her, daring her to light it up and shoo the cold away. She felt that feeling of dispair and solitude falling upon her, heavier than it usually was. Clearing her throath, she opened her mouth and sang.

The sound of her voice filled the silent space but this time it was not enough to make that uneasy felling go away.

The music turned sad, and Nesta realized that the melody had became full of angst, of pain and solitude.

She sang and sang, with tears furiously falling, crying like a little child.

Crying because she was alone. Because she was hurting.

And no one seemed to care.

To remember that she existed.


End file.
